


Crown Shyness

by potterswinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Castiel, Depression, Dirty Thoughts, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 15:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15270795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterswinchesters/pseuds/potterswinchesters
Summary: The first three nights of a million that Dean is without Castiel.





	Crown Shyness

The night after Castiel dies, Dean dreams.

He always wished he could see Castiel—the _real_ Castiel, behind the body of flesh that he had inhabited. When Dean dreams of him, it’s almost as though he can.

The first thing he sees is the unmistakable pair of blue eyes.

Castiel is made of wisps of grace that billow before Dean. He looks cosmic—like he’s supposed to—but the eyes and the body that Dean came to know and love are still there. It’s as though someone rebuilt Jimmy Novak’s vessel out of stars.

In the dream, Dean wants him; with every fibre of his being, he wants him. _“Cas,”_ he gasps; it comes out as a whispered echo where each repetition is more ragged and broken than the last. _“Cas, touch me. Touch me. I need you.”_

But Castiel doesn’t touch him, doesn’t even come close. Every time Dean tries to approach him, Cas winds up farther away, as though something as subtle as an exhale can blow him away. Dean reaches his arms out, grasping at nothing, trying desperately to warp his knuckles over the folds of the angel’s trench coat. He feels as though he’s been drowning for ten minutes, ten days, ten _years_ —and still, he can’t get to Castiel.

A scream of frustration builds in Dean’s throat, but it doesn’t rip free until Dean jolts awake. Darkness presses in on him from all sides, swallowing up his yell.

A sheen of sweat is coating his skin, but he’s cold.

So cold.

* * *

 Two nights after Castiel dies, Dean cries.

He’s drinking under the stars, a bottle of liquor tucked under his arm. He lost the cap somewhere in the grass a few minutes ago. The air is cold, and so is the ground beneath him, but he doesn’t notice. He hasn’t been this drunk in what feels like forever—his mind is hazy, and standing up seems like an impossible feat. So he sits, bathing in silver moonlight.

He finds himself praying to Castiel, wherever he is, wishing things he never had the courage to voice aloud before.

“Caaas,” he slurs, “can you ’magine if you showed up in a chick’s body all those years ago?” He laughs and tries to imagine Castiel as a woman. “Man, woulda been so much easier. I coulda been with you the whole time. But noooo, hadda show up in a big beefy guy with fuckin’ blue eyes an’ dick-suckin’ lips. With—with your dumb voice an’ your dumb trench coat.”

Dean weaves his fingers through blades of grass and pulls out fistfuls. He’s angry that things turned out this way; angry that he fell for Cas. Angry that he never acted on his feelings. Angry that Cas is fucking _dead_ now, so they won’t ever have a chance to be anything. He’s angry until he’s sad, and tears begin to brim his eyes.

The next time he speaks aloud, his tone is different. Softer. “Baby ’m not doin’ so well since y’left me. I dunno how but you needa come back t’me. Come back t’me Cas an’ we can… we can be happy.”

The breeze picks up suddenly, and Dean is sure it means Cas can hear him. He lies on his back, and whiskey from the uncapped bottle he forgot he was holding spills out. He doesn’t flinch. Tears are spilling hot and fast over his freckled cheeks.

“Hear me, baby?” he asks the stars as they stretch across the sky with every tearful blink of his eyes. “I controlled m’self for _years_. Dunno how ’cause if I could be with you tonight, I’d kiss those lips o’ yours so hard. Then I—then I—” Dean breaks off and reaches for his jeans—it takes a few tries, but eventually he’s able to unbutton and unzip them. “Wouldn’t waste any more time. I’d let you fuck me. C’mon, Cas, want you t’fuck me. Wanna feel you inside me.”

His inhibitions are lower than they’ve been in a long time; though the act is cloaked in shame, Dean slips his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and touches himself. He works his aching cock until his pleasure crests. Until he is left wet and sated and trembling on the cold ground, beneath the stars that aren’t listening.

Castiel’s name is on the tip of his tongue.

He gnashes it between his teeth.

He swallows it down.

* * *

 Three nights after Castiel dies, Dean wanders.

It’s not too late since the sun is still out. He decides he wants to see it before it can dip down towards the horizon, so he strays away from the bunker and delves into the forest that surrounds it. He doesn’t know where he wants to be, so he simply lies down on the ground, knotted roots pressing into his back. On each inhale, his nostrils are flooded with the scent of damp soil.

When Dean looks up, his eyes slip shut, sunlight lapping at his eyelids. He shuffles around until he reaches a patch of shade where the sun can’t reach him. Then he lies for a while, allowing the gentle susurration of the branches to soothe him.

Sam comes to find him eventually, and when he does, he doesn’t say a word—he just sits down beside him.

Dean can’t look at his brother. If he does, he knows they’ll have to talk about it, and he’ll have to confess to Sam that what he feels for Cas is more than he’s ever felt for any friend; it’s more than he’d felt for even Lisa. For now, Dean wants to keep it between him and the stars, so he avoids Sam’s gaze and lets his eyes pave paths across the foliage over his head.

He notices the crowns of the trees, and how they stop just short of touching one another. It’s odd and beautiful all at once. Dean read about the phenomenon somewhere… or maybe Sammy told him about it; he can’t remember.

Crown shyness, it’s called. It reminds Dean of himself and Castiel.

Almost touching.

Not quite.


End file.
